


still dreaming of kissing your claws

by sublimity



Series: a vortex of fate around all of us [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Fix-It, Gen, M/M, Making Up, One-Sided Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Pining, Post-Season/Series 01, Unrequited Love, ciri and jaskier meet and instantly adore each other because i've come to realize they would, geralt and jaskier talk like normal people for once who would've thought
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:46:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24593233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sublimity/pseuds/sublimity
Summary: Loving Geralt of Rivia is nothing like loving all the women he’s been with, or any of the men, and if you take away Jaskier’s tragically romantic view on life, it becomes perfectly clear that it has never been about love with any of them, not really — but thisis, and it’s engulfing, overwhelming, and it’s been a part of him for so long he can barely remember what it was like to exist and not have your heart belong to the legendary Witcher. Jaskier thinks if he stripped himself out of his skin, he would probably find the feeling tethered to his bones.*Or: Geralt and Jaskier meet at a tavern, months later.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: a vortex of fate around all of us [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1777411
Comments: 12
Kudos: 61





	still dreaming of kissing your claws

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact: i almost titled this after a carly rae jepsen song. also: E•MO•TION (Deluxe) (2015) is a jaskier album front to back (and no, i will not elaborate).
> 
> i wasn't initially going to write this, and then a demon possessed my body and i churned out 2.5k words in one weekend, and _then_ i got too busy with university and had to put this on hold up until now. it's technically a follow-up piece to my previous witcher fic, but you can also read it as a standalone. i wanted to write something less sad, but i guess that's pretty much physically impossible for me to do, so this is more on the bittersweet side. enjoy!

> I need you to be a monster / which is to say, I am trying not to love you / which is to say, I am still dreaming of kissing your claws.
> 
> — **Fortesa Latifi**

It’s a few months after that Jaskier sees him at the same tavern where they first met all those years ago — as unmistakably himself as ever, a slouched figure sitting carefully away from curious eyes, in a hooded black cloak that doesn’t at all hide his long tousled white hair. He’s not alone this time, though — next to him, in the farther corner of the table, is a shorter someone wearing a similar cloak, and when they turn their head to say something to Geralt, Jaskier doesn’t miss the soft juvenile features. _Could it be?_

He’s heard people talking about Cintra’s tragic fall, the Battle of Sodden Hill, and all the atrocities Nilfgaard has been committing across the Continent. Jaskier has mostly been keeping to himself and staying in Posada, and so far there haven’t been any signs of potential hazard, but he wonders if Geralt — which would only be natural, he supposes — found himself in the eye of the storm after they had gone their separate ways in King Niedamir’s mountains. If the child is who Jaskier thinks they are, it looks like Geralt may just have made it to Cintra in time.

He stands there staring at them in the middle of the room, rooted to the spot, until the child — a girl, he thinks — notices and nudges Geralt on the shoulder, and then Geralt is looking right at him and Jaskier’s foolish heart leaps into his throat. Well, now it’s too late to pretend like he’s gone too senile to recognise the man he’s travelled alongside for twenty years.

And maybe it shouldn’t be so difficult, but Jaskier stands and he stares and he doesn’t know what to do or what he could say. He thinks of Geralt looking at him, eyes blazing with fury, bile dripping from his voice, saying, _If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands._ He remembers the initial confusion, the hurt, remembers thinking, _He didn’t mean it,_ and then — _What if he did._ And he and Geralt, they would fight sometimes over the years, of course, but never like that. Jaskier had never left a place feeling as unwanted and good-for-nothing as he did then. He will never admit out loud how long it took him to let go of that feeling, the self-contempt that came with being a burden to someone you— Well. It doesn’t matter, anyway.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters to himself before he can overthink it too much, taking a deep breath and plastering on a smile that probably looks painfully forced as he comes up to their table, calling Geralt’s name in a voice seething with affectation.

Geralt sets his mug on the table with a loud thud, looking cornered. “Jaskier,” he says, his face a mix of uncertainty and conflict and maybe a bit of guilt, if Jaskier were to allow himself a little self-indulgence. His stomach twists at the sight, and all of his instincts scream at him to flee because he, as it turns out, is currently very much unprepared for this interaction. To avoid making a complete fool out of himself, however, Jaskier does not.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he tries instead, and gods, it sounds _awful_. He mentally smacks himself on the head. “I, uh, see you’ve got company?”

“Oh,” Geralt says, like he didn’t expect Jaskier to point it out. “Yes, I, um… This is Cirilla.” The girl next to him — who is, in fact, a girl — eyes Jaskier curiously.

His eyebrows shoot upwards. “Cirilla of—”

“Cintra,” Geralt confirms. “My Child Surprise.”

Jaskier hums. “So you did come back to claim her.”

“And ended up locked up behind bars as Cintra was being annihilated because Queen Calanthe would not let me.” He smirks bitterly. “Cirilla is one of the few survivors of the godsdamned bloodbath that it was.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says with no pretense, and he means it. “And excuse my manners, Your Highness, I should have introduced myself before offering my condolences,” he adds, turning to Cirilla. “Jaskier, Geralt’s… something. We, uh, we used to travel together. I wrote songs about him.” He’s careful not to look anywhere near Geralt as he brings up their shared history, his face heating up uncomfortably.

“You’re a bard?” Cirilla asks in a small but interested voice. Jaskier nods enthusiastically. “I love music. Balls used to be my favorite way to pass the time before…” She grimaces. It breaks Jaskier’s heart. He doesn’t pretend to understand, but judging by the way her wide blue eyes dart back and forth every now and again, alert and wary, he thinks he can probably imagine the hell she has been through, the horrors she has seen — more than anyone should in their life, let alone a child.

“I will gladly play you some songs, if you like. That is, if…” He does look at Geralt, then, who is already watching him with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Yeah, we need to talk.”

*

The talk gets delayed until they’ve arrived at the inn Cirilla — Ciri, she insists — and Geralt are staying at, Jaskier attempting to make conversation with her on the way there, much to Geralt’s annoyance. Despite Jaskier’s best efforts, Ciri doesn’t talk much, but she’s a delight all the same, and she can appreciate art, which is more than can be said for a certain crotchety witcher who hasn’t taken Jaskier’s songs seriously once in the two decades they’ve known each other. As soon as they reach the place and Ciri assures Geralt she will be perfectly fine on her own, he nods at Jaskier to come outside.

It’s quiet and desolate despite the amount of surviving refugees from the kingdoms fallen under Nilfgaardian attacks turning to inns in search for a roof over their heads. It doesn’t surprise Jaskier that Geralt would opt for the one practically in the middle of fucking nowhere to lessen the risk of being noticed, what with the granddaughter of the deceased Lioness of Cintra under his wing. It also provides the two of them with the comfort of privacy, even if it’s combined with the eerily still quietude.

And maybe it would be more bearable had the heavy silence not been hanging in the air between them, too, with both refusing to speak first. It’s starting to get under Jaskier’s skin, so he breaks it with a question that blatantly ignores the point of what this should be about.

“How’s Yennefer?” And he knows it’s a hit, because Geralt’s face instantly twists into a grimace.

“I have no idea,” he says begrudgingly. “Haven’t seen her since the dragon hunt.” _When she basically told you to fuck off,_ Jaskier thinks, and he can’t help but gloat a little even though he feels horrible for it.

“Huh. Shame.”

“Jaskier, I think you and I both know this isn’t why I said we needed to talk, so I highly suggest you save your much-needed condolences for another time,” Geralt hisses. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. This is actually what I— Ugh. I would like to apologise. _If you’d let me._ ”

And — _oh._ Jaskier isn’t quite sure what he was expecting, as many times as he had imagined this conversation happening, mostly entertaining the idea, really, rather than ever fully anticipating it to come to fruition — but in none of those scenarios did they get to the apology part so early on, with Geralt initiating it because he _wanted_ to.

“Oh,” he says. Geralt is looking elsewhere, clearly uncomfortable.

“I was… being unfair to you, and I didn’t mean what I said that day. I only said it because I was angry with Yennefer, and even more so with myself, and you were _there_ , all — joyous and happy as if nothing had happened.” He sighs, now meeting Jaskier’s eyes. “Forgive me. And also… you’re not something. You’re my friend.”

Jaskier just gapes at that, utterly and embarrassingly lost for words for someone who normally prides himself on his extensive vocabulary. His heart is beating so fast he fears it may burst out of his ribcage. He’s pretty sure Geralt can hear it. There’s no way Geralt can’t hear it, with his heightened witcher senses and all.

“Oh wow, I—” He clears his throat. “Coming from you, that’s practically a love confession. Which, I mean, I’m _flattered_ , obviously, but—”

“Jaskier.”

He sighs, running a hand along his face. “I’m sorry, I’m an idiot, what I meant to say is… Geralt, of course I forgive you. And… thank you. I appreciate the admission of our friendship being a mutual thing that exists. It only took you twenty years, after all.”

It’s a joke, but Geralt still winces. “I’m — not good at this whole thing. Attachments.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured,” Jaskier says, laughing quietly, and then they both are, and any previous tension that was there between them is now gone, dissipated. “So, wait, hold on, just to be clear. When you said I was your friend, did you mean… your _best_ friend?”

Geralt looks unamused. “Mm, don’t push your luck,” he grunts, but there’s no malice in his voice. “You should know by now that Roach is irreplaceable.”

Jaskier chuckles. “Yeah, yeah, all right. I suppose I will just have to live with that.”

They stand in each other’s company without saying anything for what feels like minutes, maybe, just breathing in the crisp air, and the silence isn’t at all heavy anymore — it’s tranquil, and comfortable, and it’s almost enough. Jaskier turns his head to look at Geralt, shadows of the upcoming dusk falling onto his face; a ghostly beauty that suddenly reminds him that this man next to him isn’t really human — hasn’t been one in a long, long time. It’s also hypnotic, and Jaskier promptly realises he’s been holding his breath.

He doesn’t think Geralt notices him watching — or if he does, he shows no indication of it. And Jaskier could leave it, he considers; let it stay in the space between them, forever unvoiced, like maybe it isn’t there, like maybe whatever he’s been carrying inside him all those years he’s known Geralt, he’s over it now — except that would be a lie. So he thinks: to hell with it. He thinks: if they’re confessing things, even if Jaskier knows there is no hope for this, he might as well get the words out of his mouth.

“So, um,” he begins, running his tongue over his lips in a nervous motion. “Now that we’ve sorted one thing out, are we going to talk about the other elephant in the room? Or, I suppose, not the _room_ , but, well. That’s how the saying goes.”

Geralt turns to him, raising a questioning eyebrow. “That other elephant being…?”

“Oh, I think you know.”

No response comes, but the way Geralt clenches his jaw and carefully avoids looking Jaskier in the eye is confirmation enough. Jaskier swallows thickly.

“Interesting story,” he says, a bit strained. “This one lady I had an affair with actually called me out on it. Brilliant, she was. Excellent company, and ah, that talented _mouth_ of hers, the _songs_ I could write about it!” He sighs dreamily, laughing when Geralt makes a displeased face, and he _almost_ doesn’t sound nervous out of his mind. Almost. “Um, basically, we separated because she said that she was tired of competing with a man who never even looked at me twice but had my heart all the same. In hindsight, I suppose I might’ve talked about you on a slightly more continuous basis than what would be considered proper.” He says it like maybe it’s funny and silly and something other than what it is, like maybe he hasn’t just laid his heart out on the table before Geralt, raw and bleeding.

Geralt just purses his lips, still silent. When he finally speaks, the words come out a little defensive.

“I did look at you.”

And Jaskier aims for a laugh, really, but it ends up sounding more like a sob. He shakes his head. “Not the way I wanted you to, no.”

“Hm,” is all Geralt says to that, because they both know if they’re honest, there’s not really any arguing with it.

“It’s all right, though. I’m — starting to accept it, I think, that… nothing is ever going to happen between us,” he quickly assures, but his voice breaks traitorously at the end of the sentence, so Jaskier closes his eyes and takes a sharp breath. He makes sure to look Geralt in the eye as he continues, mustering up all of his determination. “You know, contrary to whatever opinion you may have about me, I can handle rejection just fine. As long as you don’t act like an arse about it, Geralt, because I _never_ want to leave you, so don’t you dare try and push me away again.”

It comes out the way he intended it — like a warning, and Geralt looks slightly taken aback, like he was expecting something else entirely. And then it’s Jaskier’s turn to be surprised once more, because he receives a firm nod and a maybe-smile in response, and he knows this is Geralt’s way of offering him an olive branch.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Geralt says. Jaskier bites back a smile, averting his gaze.

“Well then.” He clears his throat. “Good.”

“Good,” Geralt agrees, and Jaskier doesn’t look, but it sounds a bit like he’s smiling. He doesn’t fight the corners of his own mouth curving upwards at that.

It feels — strangely final, with everything so out in the open. Lighter, resolved, ready for a fresh start. It should be enough. But the problem is: Jaskier isn’t sure if he’s fully content with it. The problem is that he doesn’t think he could ever stop loving this man — his best friend and travel companion and a hero, no doubt about it; doesn’t know if he could ever really move on from these feelings and leave them behind, in times past, especially now that he and Geralt are together again — and, well, the rest of the problem is that he doesn’t want to, either.

Loving Geralt of Rivia is nothing like loving all the women he’s been with, or any of the men, and if you take away Jaskier’s tragically romantic view on life, it becomes perfectly clear that it has never been about love with any of them, not really — but this _is_ , and it’s engulfing, overwhelming, and it’s been a part of him for so long he can barely remember what it was like to exist and not have your heart belong to the legendary Witcher. Jaskier thinks if he stripped himself out of his skin, he would probably find the feeling tethered to his bones. He looks at Geralt now and craving climbs up his throat, wolfish and greedy. Jaskier’s hands itch with a desire to reach out and touch. He doesn’t. Instead—

“Geralt,” he calls in a small voice before he can lose his nerve. “If it’s not too much to ask — and I will never bring this up again, I swear to you, but could you— Would it be too improper to ask you for one kiss?” He looks down as he says it, ears burning, fingers digging into his palm, and he can’t see Geralt’s face but can probably gauge his reaction, so he hurriedly adds: “Just… this once, a quick thing, really, just so I— Just so I could know how it feels. That is all.”

Geralt clears his throat, and Jaskier steals a glance. He’s frowning, face somber. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

And it’s Jaskier’s one last chance to retreat, and maybe he can still twist it into a joke, take it back, and then they can both move on with their lives and forget this ever happened, but Jaskier has always been too shit at tuning his heart out for his own damn good.

“Please?” he presses, and it comes out strangled, too high-pitched, revealing. _You fool, what are you doing._ “I will never ask anything of you again, you have my word, but if you could just—”

He doesn’t finish, and there’s a pause, and then Geralt closes the distance between them, brushing his thumb along Jaskier’s cheek, and Jaskier shivers. When Geralt presses their lips together softly, he’s too startled to respond for a moment — and then does all at once, with fervent and desperation, deepening the kiss, putting his hands on the back of Geralt’s neck — _and Geralt lets him_. It’s everything Jaskier has ever wanted and he loves it and he hates it and he wants the earth to open up and swallow him so that he wouldn’t have to live in a world after this moment where Geralt never kisses him again.

When Jaskier pulls away to catch his breath, there’s a single tear running down his cheek. _Oh, fuck._ “Sorry,” he whispers, wiping it away, and Geralt politely averts his eyes.

It’s back, then — the heavy silence, and it’s awful and awkward and suffocating, and Jaskier all but screams at himself for ruining everything with his pathetic unwanted feelings he _just_ said he was coming to terms with. They might have managed to salvage the remaining relationship between them, but this? This is Jaskier having crossed a dangerous line that probably shouldn’t have been crossed. He feels his face burn.

Neither of them move for a moment, and Jaskier almost opens his mouth to apologise once more, explain himself, maybe, he doesn’t bloody well know, when Geralt suddenly says:

“We’re leaving tomorrow.” Jaskier blinks stupidly at him. “Ciri and I. You’re free to join, if you like.”

And then he turns on his heels and is gone just like that, and Jaskier stands there properly confused until an incredulous laugh escapes his lips — and maybe not everything is lost just yet.

*

Jaskier makes a trip back home to pick up his lute and meets them outside the same inn the next morning — Geralt with his hair a dishevelled mess, always so much messier than usual after he’s just woken up — and Jaskier’s heart clutches at the familiarity of it, seeing him like this in the mornings, constantly wondering if he ever eases up on vigilance and lets himself get more than a wink of genuine sleep during the night; and Ciri farther away, calmly feeding Roach an apple from the nearby tree that must belong to the innkeeper, Jaskier assumes.

“You came,” Geralt says matter-of-factly, but Jaskier thinks he sees the flicker of contentment in the swirling yellow irises of his eyes.

“I came.” He shrugs. Then, “Your Highness!” Ciri turns her head to look at him, a small smile blooming on her face.

“Bard!” she says back from where she’s standing, rising her voice just enough for him to hear, and then her eyes flicker down to the lute strap on his shoulder. “You still owe me a song!”

He puts a hand on his chest where his heart is, nodding silently as an indication of a promise.

“Everything all right?” Geralt asks as Jaskier looks back at him — and oh, it’s a _loaded_ question, what with everything that happened between them yesterday. Jaskier could say many things in response, like how he doesn’t know if it ever truly will be, but maybe that’s not so bad, because he’s an important person in Geralt’s life nonetheless, and _that’s_ worth a whole damn lot.

“Never better,” he scoffs instead, grinning lopsidedly.

He’s surprised to find Geralt not smiling back. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, looking decidedly _guilty_ , and Jaskier is about to ask whatever for when Geralt continues: “For what it’s worth, I wish I could… be what you want me to.” _Ah._

Jaskier finds himself at a loss for words, and he thinks he will definitely need time to get used to Geralt’s newfound open expression of feelings, because this is a tad much to handle unpromptedly for Jaskier’s feeble old heart. Neither of them look at each other, but he nods anyway.

“It’s fine. I promise I’ll be fine. I’m— Well, I’m sorry, too. For making this so awkward.” He winces.

“It’s not,” Geralt says in a serious voice. Jaskier smiles sadly.

“Isn’t it?”

“Not if you don’t actively think about it.” He shrugs. “I tend not to.”

Jaskier barks out a laugh. “You know, that does not surprise me in the slightest. This,” he gestures between the two of them, “is good, though. At least you can’t pretend you don’t care about me anymore.”

“Hm. Just as a precaution, don’t go around expecting goodnight kisses or anything from now on, because it’s not happening.”

Jaskier chuckles. “I will keep that in mind.” There’s a pause, and he contemplates whether to ask the question sitting on his tongue or not, and then does anyway: “I was right, though. Yesterday, I mean. You already knew.”

“Yes,” Geralt says.

“And when I suggested that you and I leave together during the dragon hunt, and you ignored me and went to see Yennefer…” he trails off, failing to suppress a grimace at the memory.

“I knew then, too.”

“Bastard,” he huffs. Geralt snorts at that, and it gets a laugh out of Jaskier, too.

“So are we leaving or would you rather stand here and talk about feelings some more? Because I can’t say I’m too eager.” That earns him a half-hearted shove on the shoulder, which makes them both laugh some more.

They walk up to Ciri in companionable silence, and something warm and mellow ignites in Jaskier’s chest — something that feels like happiness, maybe. He smiles to himself, fiddling with the strap of his lute.

He’ll be all right. They will be.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading & please consider [signing petitions and donating](https://blacklivesmatter.carrd.co/) if you can to help support the blm movement!


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